Seeing Himself
by Ashley A
Summary: Pre movie. A day in the life of Dagonet.


Author's notes:

Pre movie. A look into a day in the life of Dagonet.

Written for the "How in the hell do I write that character?" challenge at King Arthur fanfiction.

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.

Rated: PG13

Enjoy.

"What in hell are you doing that for?"

"Why are you over there?"

"Why do you bother- ow, Dagonet! Get off!"

"Stop talking, Lancelot," the tall, nearly bald knight says in a calm manor that belies his attitude toward the younger man.

He tows the 20 year old by the ear, howling and kicking, unable to reach Dagonet due to the length of the man's arms, toward the small group of Roman officers huddled by the lit brazier in the courtyard.

Busy examining papers, Arthur does not look up until the 25 year old is standing directly in front of him.

"Dagonet," he says, still studying the maps in his calloused hands, "what has he done this time?"

"Talking too much. Interrupting our training. Being disrespectful. All in all not trying in the least to learn anything. You asked me to teach him, Arthur. He will not be taught."

Arthur Castus, at 24, already taller than most of the other officers stationed at the wall, eyes the struggling Lancelot and the impassive Dagonet with one dark eyebrow cocked.

"Lancelot. You will listen to Dagonet, and you will not disregard him. I ask you this, knight. Will you hear me?"

Lancelot sighs dramatically and throws up his arms, which are covered in small bruises and cuts.

"As you command, Arthur. Only-" he says as Dagonet finally lets go of his ear, "- only ask him to not be so damn sure of himself. He's not a god."

"Petulance does not become you, my friend," Arthur replies, and points at Dagonet, who remains quietly staring at Arthur, as if waiting for a missive from on high.

"This man is the best heavy weapons expert you will ever have the pleasure to know. He is the best, Lancelot, and you have sworn to be that as well. There is no other appropriate to teach you. Follow him, listen to him, and perhaps you will be more than a fair swordsman one day."

Lancelot sticks out his lower lip, increasing his natural pout to one of gargantuan size. He shrugs finally, and bows slightly to Dagonet, who crosses his arms over his broad chest.

"I shall do as Arthur asks, Dagonet. Lead on."

Dagonet nods his head to Arthur, saying nothing. Arthur nods back. The three men part ways, Arthur returning to his papers, Dagonet and Lancelot back to the training field and the large mace and axe laying crossways on the ground where Lancelot had flung them in disgust.

"Quiet yourself this time, little knight, and perhaps you might discover a talent inside you never knew you had."

Lancelot is about to retort, but remembers the scowl on Arthur's face, and slams his lips shut.

Dagonet sips a flagon of ale, watching as the youngest one, Galahad, attempts to throw his knife into a board that Gawain has set up for them to practice on. He misses by a mile, and is discouraged immediately. Gawain laughs, and convinces his friend to try again.

The lanky, subdued knight pushes off from the bar he is resting on, and wanders outside the tavern area, toward the newly built Roman style chapel that Arthur has had installed by the cemetary.

He stops at the edge of the graveyard, and closes his eyes momentarily in rememberance of the knights gone before him, and passes by silently.

A scuffling noise is heard from the trees, and he is instantly on alert, his hand going to the small dirk he keeps in his tunic, the other hand dropping the mug of drink.

Sneaking noiselessly toward the sound, he stops at the side of the first tree at the edge of the wood, and peeks around it, assessing the situation.

No situation.

Arthur and Lancelot, wrapped around each other, their bodies and light practice armor occasionally making smacking sounds as Arthur pushes the other man up against the bark of an evergreen, his lips covering Lancelot's, his eyes blazing with a fire Dagonet has only seen from Arthur on the battlefield.

Dagonet slips away, wanting to leave the two to their privacy.

He makes it back to the cemetary, and is deeply surprised to find his heart beating much faster than normal.

He has known of the relationship between the commander and the younger Sarmatian for many months now, but has never seen any evidence of it.

He raises a hand to his face, and realizes he is blushing.

He feels his overheated skin, his cool fingers lightly tracing his cheekbones, in wonder at the sensation of heat coming from his own body.

The feeling is so unfamiliar he has to think deeply in order to remember it.

He drops his hand from his face, staring at his fingers as if they have suddenly dropped off.

Impassive. Calm. Collected. Peaceful.

Cold. Chilly. Unfeeling. Soulless.

The former four words of description come from Arthur.

The latter, Lancelot.

Dagonet wonders at how the two men can see him so differently.

How does he see himself?

An inner stillness settles over him, and he uses a trick he learned a long time ago to push unwanted thoughts away.

He settles himself on the damp grass near to Arthur's father's grave, and shuts his eyes.

A blur of images assaults him, but he lets them come. He knows in time they will drop away, if he is patient enough.

He sees:

Arthur, a boy commander in full military dress, his face coated in blood from a battle, vomiting by the side of the road when he thinks all of his novice knights are sleeping.

Tristan, feeding his hawk, and whispering to her softly, his face relaxed into an expression Dagonet's never seen on the scout.

Galahad and Gawain, the older comforting the younger after the death of one of the first knights.

Bors, his eyes lit up, holding his first 'bastard' in his arms.

Lancelot, drunk, dancing in the courtyard, his arms over his head, tears in his eyes, the noise of the somewhat illicit Samhain celebration crashing around him.

The faces of the Woads he's killed, distorted and crazy.

All of these things coalesce into a riot of color, then suddenly – nothing.

No, not nothing.

A sea of green, as far as he can see.

He reaches out a hand, as if to grab it, but his hand passes intangibly through it.

The sight of so much green brings tears to his eyes, after so many years of brown and black and white and blood red.

It is the green of his homeland, and he sinks into it, his arms and legs akimbo, the grass swaying gently closed over him.

"Oh for the love of sanity, Dagonet – will you leave off? I am a sword man, I will always be a sword man. I cannot master this blasted axe – it's too bulky for one thing. How can you fight gracefully with a weapon that size?"

Dagonet merely tosses the axe end over end, hitting the large wooden target perfectly.

Lancelot's mouth opens in shock, then a roar of laughter echoes from it.

"Show off! Arthur only needs one heavy weapons expert anyhow. You are obviously it."

The tall man shrugs, and retreives his axe. "I think you are wrong, Lancelot, about yourself and your abilities…but it is your choice. The weapon always calls to it's master. The blades have chosen you. Use your skill wisely, and you shall be a monster one day."

Lancelot grins, his teeth white in the dark of the coming dusk.

"I am already a monster, Dag. I only practice so the rest of you don't look bad."

He twirls his double blades with both hands so fast they appear as a humingbird's wings.

He lets one after the other go with a metallic _zing _that sounds throughout the training yard, and damned if they don't end up dead center in the target.

The young knight practically skips as he gets his swords, and turns a smiling face on Dagonet, who merely cocks an eyebrow.

"Bah!" Lancelot spits, his mood deflated by the lack of reaction. "You wouldn't know talent if it reached up and bit you on the decidely flat arse."

"Talking about yourself again, Lancelot?"

"Gawain – I would not speak to a man holding swords in such a manner," Lancelot jokes in response to the blond man's comments. Galahad and Tristan follow him into the arena, Bors entering as well, holding a large leg of some poor dead, plucked bird, chewing noisily.

"You don't scare me, little knight," responds Gawain, which makes Dagonet snort.

"What?" Gawain says, turning a scowl on the older man.

"Nothing," Dagonet answers. "You're just the same age – I find it amusing you would call him 'little'."

Gawain sighs. "Leave it to Dag to ruin the comment by over analyzing it."

Dagonet just smiles briefly, then leans against the edge of the enclosure as the others begin to pair off and spar.

Arthur appears at his shoulder, silently watching the knights play at fighting.

"They are getting quite good," he says after a while of watching. Dagonet nods.

Arthur meets his eyes briefly, the kindness and brotherhood radiating out of their grey-green depths hitting Dagonet unexpectedly.

He feels something again, but instead of trying to push it away, he welcomes it, and stands still as Arthur joins the others, teasing Lancelot, who promptly drops his swords and tackles the commander.

Dagonet grins at the sight of the young Sarmatian holding the larger Roman down with ease, the other knights laughing and catcalling as the two mock fight.

His mind casts back to the night before, when the riot of images and feeling had threatened to overwhelm him – and he had found tranquility in a graveyard.

How does he see himself?

As one of them.

And that's the way he wants it.

Fin.


End file.
